


C'est La Mort

by KingFarbauti



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Gen, mentally ill Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingFarbauti/pseuds/KingFarbauti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request: What it took for Michael to finally kill Gavin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est La Mort

Los Santos was a lovely place in the Fall, despite what some people would tell you. The beaches were mostly void of their usual over-population brought about by weekenders and vacationers flocking to anywhere remotely tropical. The trees had begun their slow turn of what felt like a thousand different shades of reds and yellows. Fall made Michael happy.

“Wot if…” A heavily accented voice chirped beside him, causing Michael to instinctively roll his eyes. Still, it was all in good nature, and the voice knew that. “Your fingers actually think they’re toes?”

Michael laughed, despite the faux irritation in his voice. “Gavin, what the fuck. Your fingers can’t think! _They’re fingers!!_ ”

“Well they don’t know that, do they?!” Gavin squawked, indignant. “An’ you don’t know that they can’t think! They can feel pain, can’t they? That requires _some_ kind of thinking, yeah?”

Getting into any sort of verbal argument with Gavin while driving was a dangerous game. More dangerous than their heists, in a way. The amount of brainpower required to keep up with Gavin’s verbal gymnastics, and his serpentine way of thinking, it always drew too much attention away from the road. It was why Gavin never rode alone with Ryan, why Jack and Jeremy just always instinctively agreed with everything Gavin said, why Geoff just always responded with an exhausted ‘shut up’.

But Michael could do none of those things. Michael could only ever indulge.

He couldn’t tell you what it was that connected him so fiercely to the Brit; Michael had been in the Crew longer, but from the moment Gavin had walked through the doors, trailing nervously behind Geoff, they had been completely and utterly inseparable.

And no matter how many times Michael threatened Gavin’s life, in times of annoyance, Michael honestly couldn’t picture a life without Gavin anymore.

Where once had been imagery of insurmountable wealth, of painfully expensive cars, of an endless supply of every weapon he could ever dream of… where once had been a comfortable seat, alone, at the top of the criminal food chain… there was now only darkness. What more could he want, when his greatest source of happiness and entertainment was currently prattling on about extremities in the passenger seat beside him?

“Michael, Michael!” Gavin started, excitedly, bouncing slightly in his seat. It earned another scoff from the explosives expert.

“Yes, Gavin…”

“Million dollars,” Here Michael rolled his eyes again, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter as he steeled himself for whatever insane question that Gavin was about to propose. “But you change colors, like the leaves… and you _feel_ it.”

“What does that even mean??” Michael gave a half-laugh, eyebrows pinched together in mild irritation, and confusion. “Feel it _how_?”

“Well…--”

Gavin’s response was cut short. All Michael could hear was the crunching of metal, and the squealing of tires. His world became a blur, and every inch of his body was alight with pain. He vaguely remembered rolling several times before his world went black.

Los Santos drivers were notoriously terrible, and often times the Crew made jokes about how they simply _must_ be NCPs, because no human could ever drive _that_ badly.

The pair had been so engrossed in their playful banter, Michael’s usually keen eyes had failed to notice the delivery truck in time; the larger vehicle had decided to gun it towards the intersection, once the light turned yellow, instead of heeding the warning. They hadn’t made it in time. By the time the truck had begun barreling its way through the intersection, opposing traffic had begun to flow. Most stopped quickly to avoid the truck, but Michael and a few unlucky others had remained oblivious.

\---

He awoke to the sound of an incessant beeping, and to the sunlight pressing uncomfortably against his eyelids. With a groan he struggled to properly wake; his eyes refused to open, too tired and too pained by the bright lights. His body refused to move in the way he wanted it to, and before he could harm himself in trying further, a gentle hand found his shoulder. Instinctively, he tried to push it off, but then there was a voice.

It sounded like Jack’s voice, but he couldn’t pick out the words, only the soothing tone that worked to ease some of his confusion and distress.

Michael tried to call her name, but all that came out was nonsense and noise.

“…Truck hit…flipped…pulled you out…surgery.” Jack’s words began to come through in bits and pieces, as she calmly repeated herself, as many times as she had to until recognition began to form on Michael’s face.

Cracking open one eye, Michael looked over at her blurry, swimming form sitting diligently at his bedside. She looked like some sort of heavenly figure, like that character from the Overwatch game that she loved to play so much. Michael couldn’t remember the name.

“Hos-… pital…?” Michael croaked slowly, his words thick and slurred. His tongue felt like a sponge, soaked in lead; too hot, and taking up far too much room in his mouth.

“Yeah, you’re at the hospital.” Jack reassured with a slow nod, her words more clear to him now. Gently, her hand moved to take his own, her thumb brushing along the backs of his fingers soothingly. “You’ve been here for three days.”

Michael’s eyes widened slightly at the news, but otherwise had little reaction.

Three days certainly sounded like a lot, but he could recall times when members of the Crew had been laid up for longer. Michael couldn’t even remember what he had been doing, prior to the crash. Was it the end of a heist? Had he been fleeing from the cops? All he could remember was trees; something about the trees, and their ever-changing colors, stuck out to him.

“You had a pretty bad head injury,” Jack continued, concern plastered across her soft features. “They had to rush you into surgery immediately, they said you had swelling in your brain. You had a few broken bones, too…” She nodded to the cast on his left arm, and his left leg. “They weren’t sure what would happen to you.”

The emotion was clear in her voice, and instinctively Michael took her hand more firmly in his own, trying to be as comforting as he could in his current situation. Cuts, scrapes, and bruises littered his body, but his strong-willed and stubborn spirit remained untouched. A firm nod of his head was all Jack needed to reign in her fleeing emotions, and compose herself once more into Geoff’s intimidating Right Hand.

“I’ll go tell the others you’re awake.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before letting it drop as she stood.

Oh, right. The others.

“W-Where… are they?” Michael stammered out, still struggling with speech. The irritation it brought was clear on his bandaged face.

“They’re with Gavin, right now.” Jack replied, with no small amount of sadness, sympathy etched deep into her face.

_Gavin._

Suddenly, it all came rushing back with the same force as the truck that had hit them. He and Gavin had been driving around the city, bored and looking for mischief to cause. It hadn’t just been him alone in the car, that day.

They had been talking about the trees.

Quickly, Michael scrambled to grab onto Jack’s hand before she could walk away, gripping her fingers as tight as his own could manage, looking up at Jack with a pleading expression. His crippled words failed him, but his horrified eyes conveyed his only concern: _is Gavin okay?_

“He hasn’t woken up, yet,” Jack gave his hand a gentle pat, understanding him perfectly. “But he’s stable, and his injuries weren’t serious. You took the brunt of the crash.”

It was only some small relief, but it was all he had.

Clinging to what little hope was given, Michael forced himself to relax back against the bed. He forced himself to let Jack’s hand go, if only to better hide the shaking of his own.

The others were all so painfully average looking in an attempt to blend in. Jack wore the soccer mom look well, but Geoff—in his obscure graphic t-shirt, and his many tattoos—looked like a man trying entirely too hard to fit in to the punk scene of today’s youth. He both pulled it off well, and stuck out like a sore thumb.

Jeremy looked at least somewhat normal, in some t-shirt supporting an internet company he loved so much. Still, it was difficult for Michael to see the shorter man in something outside of his neon clothes and cowboy hat.

Then in came Ryan. Were it not for the long, dip-dyed hair pulled into a messy bun, the mercenary likely could have passed for a suburban father of two, seamlessly. He looked awkward in his clothes, and Michael couldn’t tell if it was because Ryan was having a bad mental health day, or because he felt naked without more layers and more face paint. Perhaps a bit of both.

“Jesus, dude,” Jeremy was the first to speak, and Michael was thankful for it. Their silent stares had begun to get under his skin, like the needles of his IV. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Lil J.” Michael snarked in return, grateful for the small humor. “You’re looking pretty shitty yourself.”

“Awh! You _noticed_!!” The sniper batted his eyelashes, placing a flattered hand to his chest.

Jack only rolled her eyes affectionately, Ryan remained silent and stoic.

Geoff didn’t seem to have the energy to keep up with the younger boys’ usual teasing and antics. He only stepped forward, his voice soft and coarse; Michael could tell, then, that Geoff had likely been crying. “Michael, how are you feeling…?” The tone of Geoff’s voice, and the overwhelming parental concern in his eyes forced Michael to look away; his jaw clenching to keep his own fiery emotions in check.

“Like I just got hit by a truck.” He snapped, in an effort to remain playful, but it only came out as annoyed.

The ringleader sighed, but took his cue and stepped back. Michael wasn’t ready yet, he still needed space. From the way his hazel eyes continued to bounce between the door, and the muted television, it wasn’t difficult for Ryan to pick up on Michael’s irritated train of thought.

“We’ll go get you some lunch.” The mercenary spoke softly, unoffended when all he received was a thankless nod of Michael’s head.

\---

It had been months, since the car crash.

Michael healed quickly, and bounced right back with all of his usual vigor and spite for the world. He even made it a point to refuse the wheelchair service to the front door, on his last day; hobbling out on crutches, and giving any orderlies who tried to help him a stern ‘fuck off’. But he had left the hospital alone.

Gavin still hadn’t woken up.

“Doctors say he’s in a coma.” Geoff blubbered on his penthouse sofa, after one of his visits not long after Michael was released. The ringleader sat with his head in his hands, sobbing into his palms, as the rest of the Crew sat around him in a silent concern. “They don’t know when he’ll wake up… _if_ he’ll--…”

Jack had stopped him then, with a hard grip on Geoff’s shoulder. She was terrifyingly strong for someone her size. “He _will_ wake up, Geoffrey.”

They had all believed her then.

But not Michael. Not anymore.

It had been months, and that god forsaken beeping never got any easier to stomach. At first, Michael had filled the room with as much talking as his throat could stand to give. He would talk until the nurses kicked him out, or until he lost his voice, whichever came first. But now, he could think of nothing to say. Nothing cheerful anyways.

Oh, he could have spent hours telling Gavin’s slumbering form how much he wanted to gun down every delivery truck he saw. How sometimes his mind was filled with intrusive thoughts of climbing Mount Chiliad, and seeing how far he could run down it before his feet fell out from under him, and he ultimately tumbled to his grizzly death.

There were so many things he _could_ say… but all of them would have made Gavin recoil in concern, and perhaps slight horror. Michael didn’t want that—Michael never wanted that, not seriously at least.

So there was only the silence, and that infernal beeping.

“It’s not even _living_ anymore, Geoff!!”

Michael had screamed at the Gent one night, after a particularly rough visit to Gavin’s room. Michael had witnessed the nurses changing out Gavin’s feeding tubes, and it sent the young Lad on a harsh tilt. But the mustached ringleader had only given Michael that piteous, fatherly look, and it only served to make Michael’s temper worse.

“He’s never going to wake up. You’re just delaying the inevitable!! He’ll fucking rot away in that goddamn hospital bed because you’re too _selfish_ to let him go!”

Michael had stormed away, in a hurry, then. Desperate to pretend like he hadn’t seen the tears that had gathered in Geoff’s eyes. Desperate to pretend like those words hadn’t left his mouth, about his own best friend.

He was desperate, and it was never a pretty color on someone with such a short fuse.

\---

Fall passed through Los Santos, and Winter had already settled comfortably in its place.

The others had stopped visiting Gavin. It was simply too hard on them to see the beard overtaking his face, to see the way months in a bed had begun to affect his body, to know that their words would ultimately go unanswered—and possibly unheard.

Ryan was the first. Michael still suspects one of the voices must have said something, because the mercenary came home in a fury, and locked himself away for hours. Not even Jack could get him to open the door until well into the next day. He still wouldn’t talk about what happened.

Jeremy stopped not long after that, and Michael can’t remember the last time he heard the sniper make a joke, or even laugh harder than a forced chuckle. Gavin had stolen away all of Jeremy’s humor, it seemed, and was unwilling to give it back. The sniper’s shoulders seemed heavier, and he went for longer periods without speaking. Under normal circumstances, Michael would have made a joke that Jeremy was quickly becoming Ryan’s tiny doppelganger.

Jack and Geoff stopped roughly around the same time, and Michael suspects that Jack ultimately had something to do with it, as the woman hardly ever gave up on anyone—no matter how hopeless they may have seemed. Ryan was a walking testament to that.

Michael was the only one left, and even that had come to an end.

There was a steely determination in his freckled features, his hands clenched into fists so tightly his knuckles had turned bone white, his trimmed nails biting into his palm uncomfortably. His entire body was shaking, and Michael wasn’t sure if it was nerves, grief, anger, exhaustion, or perhaps some ugly combination of all the above.

His eyes couldn’t bring themselves to leave Gavin’s ever-slumbering face.

“I’d do it.” He eventually croaked, his voice raw and abused from a lack of use. “I’d take the million dollars.”

 _I’d take **anything** if it meant feeling something again._ The words went unspoken, but sat uncomfortably just behind Michael’s lips, digging groves into his tongue with all of their fury to escape into the open air.

He could hardly even register the burn in the back of his throat as he softly pressed the button on the detonator he had been holding. An explosion at the front of the hospital sent the faculty and staff scrambling. In the chaos no one noticed Gavin’s life support shutting down, as Michael slowly flipped each switch. There was more gentleness in his hands as they worked to unhook the many wires and needles from Gavin than there had ever been, in Michael’s entire life.

The Brit had never weighed much to begin with, but the weightlessness in his arms now made Michael sick. He might as well have been carrying air; the part of his brain not completely numb to all sensation made a feeble joke that the sheet wrapped around Gavin weighed more than the Brit did.

Under normal circumstances, with the way the white sheet trailed behind them so gracefully, the others would have joked that the pair were newlyweds, off to their honeymoon. Michael would have welcomed those jokes, by now.

With no machines to keep him alive, Gavin passed peacefully before Michael even reached the back parking lot. Everyone was so focused on the explosions at the front, slipping away unnoticed was almost comically easy. He wanted to laugh, to spew insults at the hospital’s shitty security, to flip the building the bird as he sped away victoriously.

He wanted _so_ many things.

In the end, Michael was silent as he lowered Gavin into the car, laying his body across the back seat. He was silent as he drove calmly away from the hospital, going the speed limit for the first time in his life as he took back roads and scenic drives all the way to the coast. Despite the ever-present burn in the back of his throat, he remained stoic.

Pegasus had delivered his boat with all of their usual speedy confidence, and it was waiting for Michael once he arrived at the pier, bobbing happily against the waves. He wanted to be impressed. Instead all he could think about was how much he _wanted_ , and how little it actually mattered in the face of _what_ he was: empty and alone.

A storm was rolling in on the horizon. Great and terrible, and it reminded him all to unpleasantly of the dark clouds whirling in his own heart.

Michael’s boat cut through the water like a dream, and his mind burdened him with happy memories of the entire crew piled into the back as he drove them around the less-populated coasts of Los Santos; of cheerful music, happy banter, a cooler full of beer and Diet Coke, and a tipsy British hacker in the seat beside him.

How many times had Gavin occupied the spaces next to him, since arriving in the Crew? Michael couldn’t recall a time when Gavin hadn’t. It was a grim thing to realize, with the seat beside him empty, and a white sheet fluttering in the back of the boat.

The explosives expert only stopped once he could no longer see land; the boat’s motor purring softly as Michael walked to the body in the back.

Effortlessly as he had at the hospital, Michael gathered up Gavin’s limp, gangly form. He was acutely aware of the rain against his arms as the storm made its rapid approach. The worst was still further on the horizon; a wall of deathly black clouds, torrential rains, and deafening thunder. Michael worried for Ryan at home, but Jack would take care of things. She always did.

His vision had become clouded, and his face was wet, but Michael chalked it up to the storm as he hugged Gavin close in one final, fond embrace before gently lowering his best friend over the side of the boat. Happily, the ocean welcomed him; drawing Gavin down into its depths with more gentleness and grace than one would have expected.

Michael stood, and he watched, until he could no longer see the white sheet fading down slowly into the waters.

He could remember a time when his world was full of a wide array of reds and yellows; like that of the leaves in the fall, or like the explosives he loved to detonate. Like the red of the matching shirts that he and Gavin owned, like the gold of Gavin’s favorite accessories.

Now his world was filled with nothing but browns and greys. Dead like the leaves in winter, dead like everything he held dear.

Once Gavin was entirely gone from his field of vision, Michael returned to the driver’s seat. He was still, just for a moment, gathering his thoughts as his hands shook against their grip on the steering wheel. As soon as the moment past, he sped forward as fast as the expensive boat could carry him; straight into the maw of the storm.

Geoff was unsurprised when he received a call from the hospital later that evening.

The Crew was less surprised when they found what remained of Michael’s iconic boat on the shoreline, the next morning.

**Author's Note:**

> you can blame DmitriMolotov for this prompt.
> 
> i am so sorry.


End file.
